


Istanbul

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Realization, Sort of falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Istanbul, they are not lovers yet, but somehow Napoleon already knows he has become sort of enamoured with Illya Kuryakin, his Russian partner, even if at that moment in time, they are practically still strangers to each other.</p><p>Or the one where they are on their first mission with UNCLE. And Napoleon realises something. And perhaps Illya too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Istanbul

  In Istanbul, they are not lovers yet, but somehow Napoleon already knows he has become sort of enamoured with Illya Kuryakin, his Russian partner, even if at that moment in time, they are practically still strangers to each other.

And perhaps Napoleon does not know it, but that is how many love stories actually start, with two strangers in a strange city. Istanbul is not strange, per se, but it is certainly different than New York or Moscow.

Naturally, when they had first encountered each other in Berlin, and then in Rome, Napoleon had been suspicious of Illya. He has always been suspicious of people he cannot pin down and label in the moment. And Illya certainly brackets into that category. Illya had made him uncomfortable, really uncomfortable at first, and all through their relationship, he will always do so. The feeling does not go away, the sharp edge of everything whenever they are around each other, all things in focus, but Napoleon will come to learn to live with it, with his Red Peril, stealthy and so competent on and off the field. 

And Napoleon, somehow, no matter how irritating, likes the way how Illya makes him feel. 

He has come to terms that for the first time in his life, he is surrounded by people that he actually cares about. There is Gaby, and there is Illya, but Illya, and his feelings for Illya, is different altogether. And Napoleon, he does not want to let go of that feeling. He wants to hold on to it for as long as he could, _however_ he could, even if it means confusing their spy work with love and sex, confusing the espionage world with his own confusion.  

Illya Kuryakin could read him like a book, yet Napoleon is intrigued at how effortlessly the Russian can split him open sometimes–and yes, _love_ is the only word to define it, the old meaning of love, the kind of love that would make men crazy, because in the crazy espionage world, one has to be quick in everything, because time is the essence, time always matters, and when Illya Kuryakin reads him three movements before anyone else’s does, when he knows what Napoleon is going to do long before his own brain starts thinking, fuck, Napoleon thinks it is because of people like him that this profession exists, it is because of people like him that Napoleon feels he has reasons to continue breathing in this world, and well, if he cannot rightfully call that ‘love’, then he does not know what to call it anymore.

At first, this spy work Napoleon has been caught into, is just another form of necessity for him to get by with. It has nothing to do with Illya himself, nothing to do with the curve of his neck and the way he holds that gun in his hands, the way he is always serious when Napoleon is being the complete opposite, the way Illya makes him smile when he infuriates the American, the way he feels his heart grows with almost pride when he manages to make Illya smile, the way he irritates Illya. And the list could go on and on. 

Now, two missions in, Napoleon knows things have drastically changed.

  

Istanbul, the city, smells of spices and looks like it is stuck in an endless sunset, the light always warm and dying, reflecting like an orange’s skin, and postcard-like. And the colour, the orangey red colour, and the bridges, there is always the bridge and always a bridge, somewhere, stone or wooden, and Napoleon remembers how Illya had told him during one of their off-beat conversations, that he is fascinated by architecture, and Napoleon cannot help but think of Illya when he sees those buildings, when he sees Istanbul.

 The third night they are in the city, Napoleon stops him down the hotel hall, bright lights, jewellery and smell of potpourri. Napoleon is surprised when Illya lets him cup his elbow with his hand, lightly. He could feel the warmth of his skin under the fabric of his jacket, that familiar jacket. Illya leans with his back against the marble column, here everything is marble, ancient, solemn, powerful, sadly beautiful. This is a good city to fall in love with someone, anyone, and for Napoleon, he chooses to do it with Illya. Epic or tragedy, Napoleon will late fate decide for himself later.

Suddenly he is not able to let go of Illya’s arm, and surprisingly, Illya does not seem to mind, but he looks mildly curious about it.

Napoleon then slides his hand down, touches his fingers, and he is not sure why. Perhaps he just feels like it. The bones are sharp, the fingers long, the knuckles stand out, white and blue. They are so cold, so much colder than the weather he remembers in New York. Napoleon will learn this about Illya and his cold hands. He is learning it now.  

Napoleon is beginning to learn _him_.

Discretely, he wants to blow his hot breath carefully into his palms. And he would breathe his life into his lifeline, the line of fate, and Napoleon knows he can´t palm-read but if he could maybe, just maybe, he could see himself there, _just there where he really wants._

Napoleon does not know it yet, but there will be times in the future when Illya will be away on lone missions, and he will be somewhere else, _without him_ , without him reading his movements, without his constant scowling and disapproval of the American’s ways, the way Illya makes him feel, the way he has gotten used to having another person backing him up. Napoleon never had such a problem before him and he will think and feel like he is confusing his feelings with _everything else_ again. 

  Napoleon will try not to think about Illya so much, on days like those. He will try to think of Gaby or his encounters with his previous meaningless flings, because he cannot afford the luxury of missing Illya, during missions or even elsewhere. But it will be hard because Napoleon will want him to be there, by his side, so he could lock himself in the hotel room and just forget the world, lie in bed, with arms brushing, touching, looking at the ceiling. Illya’s hands may be always cold but Napoleon will want that, to lie on a bed that has not been slept on and touch each other with their clothes intact, and be young and sad and disappointed, cracked and injured but not broken, or maybe broken but their pieces still at reach. Illya would help Napoleon pick them up, he would protest but he would help, while Napoleon would continue to try and say things he does not know how to say.

  Napoleon would want that. He just does not know how much he will need it.

“This mission is fairly dangerous,” Napoleon starts after a while. And he hums. “Even if it is only our first mission as a proper team with UNCLE. But I suppose Waverly trusts us enough to do this.”

“Or perhaps it is their way to get back at us for burning the disc.”

Napoleon’s blue eyes twinkle. He remembers that of course. How they had come to that conclusion. How he had given Illya’s watch instead of shooting him. How Illya, had for the first time, defied direct orders given to him for the sake of Napoleon he had sworn at first to be his enemy. 

“You think they are sending us on a suicide mission? To get us killed?” 

Illya, back still leaning against the wall, shrugs, but there is determination when he says what he says next. 

“They cannot get rid of us that easily if that is their plan at all. Remember what Gaby said? America teaming up with Russia? Bad idea. In this case, bad idea for the bad guys.”

”It’s comforting to hear you say that.”

”It is true. And I trust you enough, now.”

Napoleon nods to that, because how could he not after Rome, and even while his mind wanders a little, he still does not let go of Illya’s hand. 

There is a fair chance anything could happen tomorrow, heck, but if anything were to happen, it could happen at any time at all. It does not have to be in Istanbul. It could have happened when they had been in Rome but Napoleon wants Illya to know all the same.   

“Look, whatever happens tomorrow, when we go in for the baddies,” Napoleon says, pauses, and he understands that there is a good chance any one of them might get injured, or probably even worse but he will not say it, he wants Illya to know one thing. “I actually love working with you, despite what I’d said in Rome.”

  It is a phrase right from a movie, or a sappy song, but Napoleon does not hesitate when he had said it. He could get away with it, if only this once, because this is Illya and him, and whether they come out triumphant tomorrow or if things go sour, there is this moment still between them and Illya has to know.

  Because in the end it is pretty much like saying “I love you” but in the coded language of men. The coded language of _I love how you make me feel, I love how you make me become, I love the kind of person I have become because of you in this short span of time_ , and some will say it’s cliche, but Napoleon wonders if anybody could ever make him feel what Illya makes him feel there, his heart, his pulse running mad, or how he gets his head dizzy, his limbs light and his heart heavy with what he thinks is love, then he does not really care. He knows it is crazy, but that is just how the Russian makes him feel.  

And then Illya smiles, that smile he rarely gives anyone and he says, “You are not a terrible spy, Cowboy. Despite what I had said too.”

Illya smiles at tonight, at the fleeting nature of this kind of eternity that will surely go on between them. Napoleon hopes, he is smiling at the unwritten first pages of their future. If nothing at all, they will have this city, this city of mazes and copper rooftops, the city where he realises for the first time, his enamoured feelings for Illya Kuryakin is rapidly turning into something else. One cannot turn back once one have crossed over that border between platonic and romantic, and Napoleon accepts this. 

Before they leave for their respective rooms, Illya smiles again and nods and takes Napoleon’s hand in his, just briefly. And it burns where his fingers touches Napoleon’s skin, it burns the way his skilful fingers graze the trigger of his gun, and he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Cowboy.”

And when Napoleon closes the door behind him, he keeps Illya’s smile, the one that’s meant for him, deep in the recesses of his heart. It does not rain that night but he will remember it as a rainy day, and hey, maybe he has a bit of a romantic in him and Napoleon will remember Illya’s hands in his. 

 


End file.
